Janus
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30th: "On being hopeless, and having a crush on your doctor"
yesterdayWouldn't it be weird if there were no journal entries through the entirety of January? It'd be like it never existed. I was thinking about it today, and came to a conclusion as to why I haven't been updating. My notebook, in which I'm writing right now, has but five pages left, and there's no change in my pocket for a new one. I've been avoiding writing for this exact reason, and I feel crazy and unstable. The noise goes on and on from dawn until dusk, and were it not for the drugs, I doubt I could sleep even the miserable three to four hours I'm able to. Hopefully I can get some extra money this next month, with the zines and all that, to remediate the downward spiral I've been circling down into.
todayA funny thing, anyways, is that I have been quite lazy for a while now—a good two or three weeks, maybe. It's like that Kimya Dawson song—we share so many woes—"It's hard to get things done when my head is full of craziness; it's when I am the busiest that I seem the laziest." An abundance of thoughts; the noise, as they say; more like a flock of dark, black birds, wheeling around me, turning my sky black as nothing. I can't think, I can't speak, I can barely gather enough courage to rid myself of the bedsheets before morning comes. I haven't been able to go out to shoot a single time all this time, and I feel like an absolute failure. And do you wanna know another funny thing? I know I'm not. I know I'm not a failure. I know my pictures look cool, that my writing carries meaning, that my drum'n'bass can pack a punch, and that my conversation topics make me the opposite of boring and bothersome. But I. Cannot. Get it. In. My. Head. So I sulk, frustrated.
It's also funny how the habit of writing has served as such a necessary medicine for me all these years—it's like I can't live without it, but what can I do if everything in this world seems to be hind a paywall? I'm just an ass in the crack of humanity. (Just look at this; I don't even make sense anymore.)
Well, what have I been up to, anyway? That's a question I often ask myself to get away a bit from the what I'm doing, and reconnect with the why I'm doing what I do. I tend to get myself lost in all these unfinished projects piling up, always coming up with more and more, digging myself a grave deeper and deeper. Stopping for a little bit and accessing my existence in the third person truly helps with both understanding how I work, and how to help myself work better. Guidance, clear paths and all that, even though I'm terrible at organizing myself, is something I so simply need right now. So, what is it?
Firstly, the Christmas zine is still in the works. Most of the planned pictures have been taken, but there's still a few to go (working with people suck), and I'm still editing it. It's going to be in full A5 size (14.85 x 21cm), self-cover, with either 32 or 36 pages (with cover). I haven't decided on the paper yet, or none of that, but it'll be saddle-stitched, cost as little as possible, and have a digital version for absolutely free. The publishing house I announced will also open alongside the release, so I guess we're all waiting for it.
While that's in the works, another photography zine project is halfway done and on hold. From January 10th-ish to 20-something-th, I was documenting the rapid decay of a closing hypermarket, this city's Carrefour, which barely a year after its inauguration is closing its doors and passing the torch to the highest bidder, putting every single product on sale, and just waiting for it all to be sold to pack their bags and flee.
There's been conspiracy, politically, behind this closing, and everyone seems to have heard a different rumor about the "whys" happening afar from the public eye, but honestly, I could not care less. To me, what truly matters is the stench of death exhaling from that place: a dying grocery store, a sorrowful existence in decay through—as Mozart said—"corporate abandonment."
Earlier this month, I came across this zine called "Ikea Tottenham", by Marius W. Hansen; it documents the very last day of this one Ikea in Tottenham, and the feeling it gives is much that of what I would come to find, but a week later, in my own world. After having skimmed through the zine, I couldn't help but feel its photography uninspired and dreamed of what I'd do if presented with the same context, on duty to capture that same source of emptiness with my own three (four) eyes. Destiny gave me the gift I wishfully and indirectly asked for, so I went for it, even though already rolling down the slope of my sorrows. The result was a whopping 1k+ pictures, which I culled down to a little over 300, that now I have to sort through 20-something pages in order to make the zine. But that sounds more like a February thing.
During the photography expeditions, lurking around the aisles, photographing people and human mess, I had my very first "hey, you can't take pictures here" confrontation. It was one of the managers, his name was very, very weird, and he came aside a frightened twinkish teen to deal with me—it seems there were no guards working there, and that chip detector wouldn't stop ringing, I'll tell you that much. They took me to a corner—the manager guy gripping his big radio—and began the questionnaire. Well, I was lovely to them, and enchanted those two, calmly defusing the situation. I explained I wasn't from the press and neither was spreading misinformation online (a problem they were suffering at that moment, with people in cheap ad-trap blogs claiming crazy discounts and making huge lines appear at their door before the store even opened, full of frustrated, angry people), and told him about the project. In the end, he was enamored with the idea and even suggested pictures I could take, but warned me that cameras were not permitted in the store anymore and I should be less obvious with mine. That I did, but not for long—this was the last day I photographed there: most corridors were blocked off, and very few products were still on the shelves, most of them packed together in carts scattered here and there, for it wouldn't make sense to have a whole empty aisle to house a single pack of Energizers, et cetera. The people were also not very fun anymore; they all looked tired and frustrated that the only rich people's grocery store had no groceries for sale, strolling about pushing empty carts and sighing. Don't get me wrong, that's good photography, but I had way too many pictures of these people already; I did not need more.
And that was the end of that. On that day, I also had my first ever pig confrontation. They stopped Lesma, a street skater and tagger—a talented musician and friend of mine—and I was taking pictures of the altercation, shooting from the hip at first, so they wouldn't notice, but after a while I just couldn't take it and put the camera up to frame it properly. That's when the vermin came holler at me, asking if I was taking pictures. I didn't respond; he tried to reach for it, and I put the camera inside my purse, arming myself with my most powerful weapon: a big smile. "Why, do you like photography?", I asked in my softest tone. "I do," he responded, also with a smile, "but I don't think this is the time for photography." We looked into each other's eyes for a moment, until they let Lesma go and we two went our way. It was hatred, I remember, what I saw in his eyes and what I felt in my heart—but none of us hesitated in showing our pearls. You can find the pictures here.
A few days before then, there was a concert by Maestro José Omar, open to the public, about Christmas. Earlier that day I was having big problems with some of the models I was working with for the Christmas zine, and unfortunately lost the chance to photograph a whole session properly (this is such a long story, and not worth it at all). The good thing is that I had the chance to meet up with a good old friend who I hadn't seen in a long time, and we had fun talking shit about people who we think are boring, and watching the rain. During the concert, I was enamored with one of the cellists (and those beautiful big basses too) and took pictures as best I could from the comfort of my seat (thank goodness for zoom lenses, am I right?)
After the concert, though, I met someone really great: José Abisolon, the greatest street photographer my city has ever seen (the only one in recent memory, at least. Nobody here is currently doing street photography but me, it seems). We talked and talked about photography, future projects and old projects, and we super connected. It was beautiful, and I'm very thankful to have him as a friend now. I also met his supposed significant other, whom I call Valéria, and who's one of the main actors in the theater troupe she's part of (one I have photographed once in performance). I hope to one day have the pleasure of photographing them once more.
And those are pretty much the highlights of this January—the only days I really lived, since the rest I spent locked up at home. Right now I'm in the waiting room, waiting for the doctor to call my name so I can have my first checkup in at least two years. I wonder how it's going to go.
Okay, I might have a crush on my doctor. I have never seen her before, and she's dreamy OMG! SHE GOT ME STUTTERING! WHAT THE HELLL!! 💀💀💀 I feel like a goddamn teenager right now, good grief! Okay, I'm fine. But oh, my, ain't she beautiful! She's so tall and gray, with that brunette hair insisting on turning gray even though her face has stayed so young and healthy. And she speaks with such calm and clarity, hearing me speak and knowing the answer to my every question! When she welcomed me into the room it was such a shock! Oh, my, she was taller than me! (Even though by just a little.) And I felt so safe, looking into each other's eyes at eye level(!) and even speaking in the same tone! She speaks so modernly, too, like a big city person, just like me! And her glasses had this blue gradient tint to the lenses, as well, that complemented her so charmingly...
When all the questions were over and she was printing my prescriptions, I forced my eyes away from her and looked around the room. There was a little rocking horse and children-sized tables and chairs, over the table, building blocks. Watching those, I wished I could mount on that horse, and felt sad that it would never be fun for a person my size, but then a thought came to mind: has she? And I smiled at the idea of her sitting in one of those tiny chairs. I asked, "Do you treat children in this room?" And she responded, following my eyes directed at the "fun corner", "Yes, I'm specialized in treating families, and that's where the children pass time while I talk to their parents." Then I looked at her and asked, "Have you ever sat in one of those chairs?" She laughed and responded, "I wish! But with 1,80m I can't even sit a single leg in one of those." And we laughed together, both knowledgeable of the woes of being built like a skyscrapper. Professionaly, she closed up that visit, giving her final considerations. Blushing, I wished her a good day, and she smiled softly at me, nodding her head. I was led out of the room, and she called another person's name to come in. Once I was outside I realized I didn't even ask to take a picture of her, and oh, how I regret it!
This morning I've learned three things: 1) My doctor is beautiful, I can't wait to see her again; 2) I have more or less 1,80m in height, which translates, in American bullshitery, to 5'11" or 6 feet, something like that. This might be the first time I've known my height, and honestly, I might just forget it soon, so write it down!; and 3) my column is fine, but the muscles in my back are all stiff and that's what makes me feel pain all day everyday. The answer? What I'm the most aversed to: strength training. Even though my lower body is abnormaly strong due to exercises and all the walking that I do, my upper body is weak and delicate. I've always been afraid of gaining muscles and looking like a man, so I purposefully weakened my upper body for most of my life. Unfortunately, I depend on this same upper body for many things (basses are heavy, and so are backpacks filled to the brim with books), and the imbalance has given me more suffering than well-being. What should I do? Probably what the doctor ordered. Will I do it? Who knows, really.